Resist The Tide
by Remy Sheppard
Summary: Be a part of the action as thirties detective The Shadow comes back to uncover a government plot and take down twisted officials while trying to recollect the scattered memories of his own past which haunts him at every turn.
1. Chapter 1

**Resist The Tide**

_The Shadow Fanfic_

_Remy Sheppard_

_HAHAHAHAHA!_

The laughter of a lunatic filled the empty ballroom of Hilton high rise hotel in Manhattan. Secretary of Defense Statler turned towards one of the illuminated exit signs over a door and began a desperate run towards it, sweat sliding down his face to sting his eyes. A shadow immediately eclipsed the exit light and the door. Statler turned, the burning salt-sweat covering his face as he frantically searched the room for another way out.

_HAHAHAHAHA! YOU'RE MINE, STATLER!_

Statler, with urgency, ripped his kerchief out of his pocket and wiped away the sweat from his face, now red with anxiety. His eyes locked onto another way out, a second set of double doors on the other side of the room. Statler rushed towards it, tripping over his feet and pushing his way through a maze of tables and chairs in the dining section of the large room. Statler wheezed heavily, begging his lungs for more air, as he closed in on the door. The bloated man of fifty again wiped his face, missing the snot that had gathered on his lip. New beads of sweat immediately emerged from his panting, varicose, red face to replace the old ones.

_TRY AGAIN, OLD MAN! HAHAHAHAHA!_

The maniac voice shouted out again from nowhere as the bodiless shadow engulfed the door. Statler screamed with the fright of a small child and turned to run but instead tripped over the carpet and landed hard on floor. His body burned, legs from running and face from a swift and unwelcomed collision with the floor. The whale of a man struggled to roll over on his back so that he would have a chance at breathing. Through his wheezing, Statler could hear foot steps. "Please," He started to shout, "Please, anything you want! Just tell me, I'll give you anything!! I'm an important man! You can't do this! Please!"

_ARE YOU THREATENING ME, STATLER!?_

"No! No, please, no," Statler begged, "I'm sorry, just… What do you want? Is it money? I can give you money! Please, oh please!"

_NO STATLER, MONEY WONT DO IT!_

An eclipsing black shadow fell over Statler, and from it came dozens of photos that scattered over his chest and floor around him. "What," Statler screamed, "What is this!?" His soggy fingers grabbed at the pictures to no avail.

_YOU KNOW WHAT THEY ARE, STATLER!_

"God… Please!"

_SHE WAS FOURTEEN, STATLER! I DOUBT GOD WOULD CARE ENOUGH TO EVEN LISTEN TO YOUR BEGGING. HE'S AS FED UP AS I AM WITH YOU!_

"No!" Statler screamed. A gunshot rang out loud, Statler's head fell to the side, eyes open with fear, face still wet with sweat. The doors that Statler had tried to leave out of last flew open, a screaming woman and a military officer rushing in. The shadow that covered Statler and the voice that accompanied it slipped off into the night unnoticed.

It was forty five minutes later, the party was definitely over. All of the guests had exited the hotel leaving only bright lights, Commissioner Weston, and a very dead Secretary of State. Weston, a tall man in his forties with short brown hair and a purple suit, lit up his next cigarette, third one tonight, and took a drag. With such high profile murder cases happening all over the city, this was beginning to be a horrible new year.

"Another suit involved in the sex trade?" Came the voice of Clyde Burke, a young, up-and-coming reporter.

Commissioner Weston took another drag of his cigarette, looking down at the body. The words had gone right over his head. He was too busy with his own thoughts, bending down to pick of one of the photos. "Sick," He said, "Just sick…."

"Mr. Weston?" Clyde spoke up again.

"Huh? Oh, sorry, Clyde. Yes. How did you hear about this already?"

"It's another suit involved in the sex trade?"

"What? Oh, yeah. Secretary of Defense Joseph Statler. Had a taste for younger women, it would seem by these pictures."

Clyde choked, throwing up a little in his mouth, turning his head aside for a moment to regain his composure before continuing, "Do we know the cause of death?"

"It looks like it was a heart attack."

"Any leads on whats going on?"

"No… just like the others, it would seem a ghost did this one too."

"What's your plan?"

"Wait for the Washington suits to come take over so I can go home to my wife. Say, are you going to be Cranston's big event tomorrow?"

"Probably, should I expect to see you there?"

"Yeah, I have a few questions for him."


	2. Chapter 2

"So ladies and gentlemen, as you can see human trafficking and the sex trade is a horrible monstrosity that we must fight against each day. I thank you all for joining me here tonight in supporting the fight of this horrible beast. Please, I invite you all to stop listening to me and enjoy the rest of the night!" Lamont finished his speech with a smile, the crowds laughing and clapping as he walked off stage. None of them really cared what the event was for or about, it's always good press to be seen at Lamont Cranston party.

Lamont strolled down the stairs off the side of the stage, giving the space back to the musicians who struck up a lively big band tune, and made his way to the bar. He grabbed the vodka martini that was waiting for him and munched down on the olive. With a smile, Mr. Tall, dark, and handsome, looked at the cute blonde to his left and turned to her. "Hi there, I'm La-"

"Lamont Cranston, I know." She interrupted.

"And you are?"

"Margo." She said, eyes buried in her wine.

"Margo what?" Lamont said playfully.

"Lane." Said the woman with an exasperated sigh.

"Cranston!" Came the gruff voice of Commissioner Weston, his cigarette nearly falling out of his mouth.

"Finally, a distraction." Margo said with contempt as she got up and excused herself from Lamont's company.

Lamont turned quickly to where she was seated and reached out for her arm, but his hand was caught mid air by Weston's. Lamont sighed and dropped his head, signaling the bar tender with his free hand for another martini.

"So Commissioner, are you enjoying the party tonight?" Lamont said shortly before choking down the rest of his martini.

"Oh yes!" Weston said with a chuckle, eying Margo as she walked to the other side of the room, "Listen, Lamont, have you heard about these murders lately?"  
Lamont turned, "You're talking about Statler and the others?"  
"Yes."  
"Thought those were all natural deaths, what brings you to murder?"  
"The pictures, Lamont. No one dies naturally with incriminating evidence scattered about their person. Its murder, I'm just now sure how… or who."

"Ha! Commissioner, you don't think I'm involved, do you?" Said Lamont, choking down this martini faster than the first.

"No, no of course not. Lamont, don't be ridiculous. It's just, all of these murders started happening when you began this campaign against human trafficking, and all of the men murdered are connected in some way to the illegal sex trade."  
"Weston, don't tie me to your problems-" Cranston began.

"Lamont, hear me out. Do you know of any fringe groups, anyone who may have taken your ideas too far? Maybe an enemy that's trying to prove a point?"

"What point would they prove? That they agree with me on certain issues?"

"I don't know, Cranston! I'm just trying to get my head even a little above the surface, here! Ever since last night, I've got the FBI rammed so far up my-"

"Hey guys, smile for the Times!?" Clyde shouted with a raised camera, interrupting Weston and snapping a blinding picture of the two men at the bar.

"You can't use that picture, Burke!" Weston said impatiently.

"Nonsense chief," Clyde shot back, "So, Cranston, how's the life of a crime fighting millionaire?"

Cranston cringed at the words and pulled at his collar, finding it hard to breathe in the tuxedo and bow-tie, "What do you want Clyde?"

"A decent picture," Clyde said, snapping his camera rapidly, "And a good story for the Times. How did you find out about this human trafficking deal?"

"The son of a friend of mine." Cranston said, holding his hand up to protect his eyes from the blinding flash.

"He got abducted?"  
"No," Cranston shot back quickly, "caught perpetuating an illegal pornography ring."

"Oh…." Clyde said, lowering the camera.

"Yeah, so now why don't you get lost, huh?" Commissioner Weston said, lighting another cigarette and taking a very long drag off of it.

"Come on, Weston; let's go get some fresh air." Cranston offered, standing up and grabbing another martini from the bartender.

"Sure." Weston said as he shoved his way past Burke.

A moment later, when the too men were on the back balcony, Weston spoke up, "It bothers me, Cranston."

"What's that, Weston?"

"The bodies… it's like they all died from fear."  
"Fear of being caught." Cranston added, sipping his martini.  
Weston chuckled and hit his cigarette again, leaning over the stone railing with his eyes fixed on the stars, "Ironic, then, to die with the chips against you like that."

"And you don't know who the next target will be or who else may be involved?"  
"Nothing I can really tell you. Sorry, bud, police questioning really only goes one way." Weston chuckled and inhaled another puff of smoke, but Cranston remained silent.

"Weston," He said, "Look into my eyes."

Weston turned with a laugh, but upon catching Cranston's eyes immediately fell silent and gained a serious look on his face.

"What do you know about the sex trade? Who is involved? Who is suspect?"

Weston remained silent for a moment, as if fighting some urge not to speak, but was overwhelmed and slowly drooled out, "We aren't sure… we think the mafia has something to do with it."

Cranston looked away, "I need to get going."

Weston closed his eyes and shook his head, running a hand through his hair. "Do you ever feel like you've misplaced five minutes?" He said rubbing his eyes.

"No," Cranston said, "Have a good night."

Lamont Cranston finished his martini and walked back inside, the tall, dark haired figure being noticed as he strolled through the room. He shook hands and smiled cordially, even offering to take a photo or two for Clyde Burke before he made his exit. Finally, however, Lamont managed to make his way outside.

"Where are you running off to?" A feminine voice called to him.

Lamont turned to see Margo Lane standing outside, sipping champagne and smoking a cigarette. "Home, big day tomorrow." He said as a yellow taxi cab pulled up to the front of the building. Lamont quickly and quietly dismissed himself from any further conversation with Ms. Lane and got in the back of the taxi. Margo watched it pull off as she extinguished her cigarette on the ground.

"Drive, Shrevy." Lamont said to the driver of the taxi. Moe Shrevnitz, without question, began to drive – the destination already a nagging thought in his mind. A short time later the taxi pulled off to the side of the road, across the street from a rustic looking Italian restaurant, 'Giotti's.' Lamont Cranston stepped out of the taxi wearing his suit, though he had added a black cape with a high collar, black slouch hat to the attire. As he walked towards the restaurant, Lamont wrapped a crimson scarf around his face and let the excess drape across his back. Moments before entering the building, Lamont vanished into the air in a shimmering trick of the eye. He had quite literally disappeared.

Three men sat inside at a small table in the middle of Giotti's. They were discussing the day's business and eating pasta. "We're closed." One of them said at the sound of the door. A large shadow fell across the table.

"_Oh? Any scraps you can spare for a stranger?_" Said a deep and sinister voice.

"No, we're closed!" Yelled another man, standing up and pulling out his gun only to turn and find the restaurant empty. "What the…" He trailed off.

"_Hahahahahaha!_" That same maniacal laughter filled the restaurant. Immediately all three men stood up and drew their weapons. Almost in that same instant a ghostly figure half appeared out of focus and overturned the table. The third of the three men fired off bullets in the direction that the ghostly figure was last seen.

"_You missed!_" Shouted the invisible man, coming once again into a blurry, partly visible focus as he sent his fist crashing into the gunman's jaw. The lackey was immediately rendered useless and fell back limp to the floor. "_Hahahahahaha!_" The other two men turned to where their comrade had fallen and began shooting.

In the midst of their shooting, the wraith-like figure appeared again, only his face and hands visible as he grabbed one of the men and threw him a ways into the nearest wall. Seconds after hitting the wall, the invisible avenger partly appeared in front of the mobster and delivered a shocking punch to the front of his face, breaking the nose and knocking the man out. The wraith-like man vanished again just as the last remaining Mafioso fired two shots. The bullets collided into his partner's chest. "_Hahahahahaha!_" The laughing filled the room. The mobster dropped his gun and, filled with fear, began backing up. He stumbled over tables and chairs until he finally found a wall. About ten feet away the air got blurry and then suddenly, there was a man standing there, half facing the mobster.

"Who… Who are you!?" The nervous Italian shouted.

"_Hahahahahaha! They call me, _The Shadow_!_" The caped man shouted out. And then, as quickly as he had become visible, he vanished again. Every few seconds he would appear, and each time he did he was a few steps closer. The mobster was dropping sweat, fear gripping his soul, choking the life out of it. Any moment now, The Shadow would be on top of the mobster. The time drug by, these last seconds hanging in agony, until finally the cold-hearted Italian broke down into tears and began to slide down the wall. "_Stand up!_" The Shadow shouted, materializing in front of the man violently grabbing him and hoisting him up in the air. "_There have been deaths recently._" He said.

"I didn't do it! I swears! I never whacked nobody!" The Italian pleaded.

"_Liar!_" The Shadow screamed as he slammed the man into the wall, "_Where's Don Giotti!?_"

"The boss!? I don't know where the boss is!"

"_Liar!_" The Shadow yelled as he beat the man into the wall again.

"You gotta believe me!"

"_I don't!_" The Shadow shouted as he vanished and dropped the man. Moments before the mobster could hit the ground, The Shadow reappeared and threw a hard and fast punch into the man's stomach and then vanished again before just as quickly reappearing to slam and pin the mobster into the wall again, "_Tell me where he is!_"

"Wa… Wa… Warehouse, on 82nd street. It's where he keeps his office, coppers don't look there yah know?"

"_They do now._" The Shadow said, violently hurling the man across the room. The mobster broke through a table with his back and passed out. No more than a minute later the door to the cab opened and Lamont Cranston appeared, pulling off his slouch hat tossing it in the seat. "Home." He said coldly to Shrevy as he closed the door.


	3. Chapter 3

Lamont Cranston walked out of his mansion at ten in the morning, the sun just rising over the heads of the trees off the way. Just as the door closed behind him, a familiar yellow taxi driven by a familiar Moe Shrevnitz pulled up to greet him. Cranston, dressed to the nines in a black suit with a nice felt fedora, walked casually to the taxi and opened the door. "Drive, Shrevy." He said calmly to the cab driver as he got in and closed the door. Shrevy already had in his mind the location to drive to, 82nd street, just the other side of Central Park. There was a lone warehouse that sat there, an image of the street and the address of the warehouse pounding through his mind uncontrollably.

"_The Shadow_ going to investigate, Mr. Cranston?" Shrevy asked.

"No, Shrevy, Just me today. _The Shadow_ is tired." Lamont leaned back and gently closed his eyes, trying to soothe away his headache with the almost-darkness his eyelids would provide.

Cranston turned details around in his mind, over and over again. He was contemplating everything he knew about this sex trade operation. When it had all started, a few months back when Lamont was on an evening stroll around Central Park, Cranston had never expected it to go this deep or far. But it just seemed like that for every body he uncovered and handed to the law, five more ran from the light – like cockroaches. That's what criminals were these days: Cockroaches. Minding his own business, Cranston had stumbled upon a rape, odd to be happening, but Central Park was large, and, other than the homeless, mostly secluded around that hour anyway. He heard the muffled screams and immediately jolted himself into action, saving the girl. He remembered that she kept crying, no matter how hard he hit the thug, she just kept crying. So he just kept hitting the guy, over and over. He let it all out, turning the man's face into mush – they'd have to go back to dental record. Lamont just remembered being absolutely sickened at the thought of rape. He asked the guy why he would do that to that poor girl. The guy kept saying, while spitting teeth and blood, that he was dating her, it was game….

"I swear it! Just a game!" The man choked out.

"_Lies!_" The Shadow shouted, delivering another punch to the man's already decimated nose, "_Tell me the truth, maggot!_"

"I swear man," He choked, The Shadow's grip bearing down harder on his throat, "She's mine, I swear!"

The Shadow threw another punch into the man's face, "_What do you mean, 'yours'?_"

"Nothin', nothin'!"

The Shadow grabbed a tuft of hair on the top of the man's head and slammed his skull into the brick wall of the bridge.

"Ah! I bought her, ok! I bought her!"

The Shadow stopped, dropping the man to the ground. With the compassion and sorrow of a father he turned around and looked at the girl who was curled up crying, and then with the anger of the gods he turned on the man, "_Where!? Who is doing this!?_" He kicked the man hard in the ribs, "_Tell me and you might live!_" Another kick.

"Stop!" The man screamed. The Shadow kicked again. "A guy named Tyson…."

Tyson led to another body. The whole thing just grew and grew and grew. It seemed as though the trail of bodies never ended, and everyone was involved: Mayoral candidates, police officers, the Secretary of Defense; who knew where this ended? The more The Shadow learned the further behind Lamont Cranston seemed to be in his fight. No matter who Shadow caught up with, it was a dead-end – just another customer. Never the sellers, never the higher-ups, just grunts and ground level scum.

"Mr. Cranston?" Lamont looked up. "We're here."

"Thank you Shrevy." Lamont said, exiting the car and grabbing his fedora. Ten thirty, time to check out the Mafia's ties to all of this, maybe even get some answers from Don Giotti. So there it was in front of him, a large and towering complex of small offices, moving cars, angry New Yorkers in hard hats, and in the center of it all a giant warehouse – the only one on 82nd. Lamont just had to figure out how to get beyond the security guards and the circumnavigating razor-wire fence.

He took in the scene for a moment, breathing in the complex beauty of American Industry. It was as if the whole complex were like a human cell, alive and bustling on a beautiful summer day. Lamont pulled his fedora down to have the brim cover his eyes, and with his gaze steady on the walk in front of him, he began to approach the main gate. His stroll was leisurely, hands hidden in his pockets, a delicate whistle escaping softly from his lips, and soon enough he was upon the gate, encroaching on the security guard's personal space.

"May I help you, sir?" The security officer said with his customarily thick accent and short temper.

"Yes," Cranston said wryly, peering up from under the brim of his fedora, "I need to get in."

"Ha," The guard laughed, "Right, well I don't think I can do that. See, this is a family business here, only authorized personnel allowed through these gates."

"The 'family' must hate you…" Cranston quipped.

"What was that?"

"Oh, I said," Lamont made eye-contact, the sort of eye-contact that seems to bore holes straight into your brain and put puppet strings on you, "I think you can make an exception this time."

"Yeah," The guard said thoughtfully, "I'm pretty sure I can make an exception for you, sir."

Lamont smiled and walked through the fencing door and, once out of sight of the security guard, made quick work of himself and faded out of sight. The security guard turned his eyes back towards his newspaper, and then stopped himself. He cut off the radio, set the paper down and very earnestly tried to remember where he had been the past two minutes.

Lamont waited patiently by the cargo door until a pick-up truck with some cargo from who-cares-where approached. The door squealed open as the rusting metal mechanism pulled it into its lair overhead and Cranston, with the agility of a young man, jumped aboard the bed of the moving truck.

The warehouse was dingy, as they always are. The shafts of light pouring in through the windows were easily seen by all the stacks of still dust lingering in the air. It smelled of old, chopped wood, sawdust, and mildew. The worst part of the whole thing, though, was the humidity in the warehouse. It had to be fifteen percent more humid inside the building that outside, all of the moisture from the rains of the past months being caught up around the poorly lined windows and left to soak inside. There were workers all going to and fro, doing whatever warehouse workers do. Some guy in a white shirt and overalls was shouting and some dumb greenhorn for mishandling some fragile piece of something or other, all the while threatening him by waiving a crowbar in his face. Lamont shook his head; the kid had to be only fifteen.

The truck began to slow down, which Lamont took as his cue to begin looking around. He had to find decent places to shield him from the light because, while he was technically invisible, his shadow was still very much apparent for the careful observer to see. His eye caught an office in the top right corner of the building, figures moving around in side of it and a large metal staircase snaking back and forth until it reached its summit at the door of the small room. Cranston disembarked from the back the truck quietly and dove for the shadow. A few men turned at the sound of a thud, but turned back to their work upon seeing nothing.

Being careful not to stay in the light too long, Lamont Cranston made his way towards the staircase. He almost wished he could teleport or silence his footsteps, but aural manipulation was slightly harder and not yet something he could accomplish easily, and teleportation was well out of the question. This usually didn't pose too much of a problem for Lamont, except in those rare instances when he was faced with a large, hollow, steel staircase. Gazing up, Lamont could see there were two figures silhouetted on the blinds of the office and decided this was probably the right place to be, and so, with slight trepidation, Lamont began his ascent on the stairs.

He could hear muffled words, some shouts and some laughs, and even some coughing as he drew nearer the room. There were only two voices, ruling out the possibility of others maybe sitting between windows. Lamont was on his last half-flight of the staircase when the door to the office opened. He immediately ceased his climb and waited. It was man, mid thirties, exiting with a small package marked clearly, '**URGENT**.' "And make sure you get there at a reasonable time, for once, eh?" The gruff command resounded from the office. The man smiled and shouted something back, closing the door before the other voice could respond. He was three steps down when Lamont appeared, without warning, directly in front of him.

"Hi!" Cranston said.

"What the-" The man began, but before he could get anymore out, Lamont threw a hard punch to his mouth and knocked the mobster out. With his left hand, Lamont quickly retrieved the package and let the brown suited mobster fall to his side and down the first half-flight of stairs unconscious. Lamont opened the package before fading out of sight again. It contained a simple letter:

Joe,

New product got in today from overseas. Get the word out to the buyers.

Vince.

Cranston knew, he just knew this was it. "Stop playin' around out there!" The gruff voice shouted from the office at the sound of the limp body falling down the stairs. Suddenly the door to the office swung open. A fat man with a large mole on his cheek and a stubby brown cigar in his mouth turned with shock. The doorway was empty, but not one for easy trust, the ripened man waved his hand and a fellow who had been sitting between the windows got up to investigate. A sigh came out of the air as the hidden third man came to the doorway and cautiously peeked a head out; making sure his gun went first. He slowly exited the room and made his way to the side of the stairs before being violently shoved down them by a now slightly visible Cranston.

"Hey! Hey, hey! What's going on out there!?" The fat man shouted nervously, sweat breaking out on his face. The door to his office suddenly slammed shut, the lock latching tightly. "Whose there!? Show yourself!" He shouted in an attempt to be brave.

"_Hahahahahaha!_" The laughter filled the office, "_Don Vince Giotti!_"

"I don't know who you're talking about!"

"_Don't lie to me Vince,_" The upper half of Lamont Cranston appeared learning over Don Giotti's desk, his right arm held up to cover the bottom half of his face, "_I don't like liars!_"

"What if I am Vince Giotti?"

Cranston disappeared again, "_Then I have questions!_"

"Like what?"

The letter floated down on the desk in front of Giotti, whose eyes quickly scanned over it.

"_What's the new merchandise, Giotti?_" Cranston shouted.

"It's nothing you need to worry about it," The mobster said, more collected than you would imagine, "do you know what you're doing here, mister? Do you know just who I am?" His cigar was inexplicably flung across the room.

"_Do you know who you are to me Giotti,_" Cranston questioned, revealing himself at Giotti's left side, "_You're nobody! A bug,_" Cranston vanished and reappeared at Giotti's right, "_A cockroach,_" He whispered into the Don's ear as he sank again into nothing, "_Now tell me before I crush you!_"

"I'm not telling you nothing!" Giotti shouted.

"_Where are you keeping them!?_" Cranston roared, a dark shadow falling over Giotti.

"Keeping who?"

"_The women, Giotti! Where is the shipment at? Tell me!_"

"The shipment?"

"_From the letter!_" Cranston appeared behind Giotti and hoisted the large man out of his chair, sending him flying across the desk, "_Tell me or it's out the window next!_"

"Look!" Giotti said, flush and nervous – a lamp suddenly flying across the room and out the window without cause or reason, "Ok, I don't know where you got your wires crossed, but I traffic drugs, alright?"

"_Don't try and save your worthless hide, Giotti!_" The voice shouted. Giotti was hoisted in the air and suddenly felt himself being pushed towards the broken glass.

"It's the truth, alright! Let's make a deal, man, come on!"

"_I don't make deals with cockroaches! I crush them!_" Giotti was suddenly pushed through the opening, glass breaking around him, heavy blinds getting tangled up on his now torn and sweat soaked suit.

"Ok fine, no deals," He began nervously, "Look, I just got a shipment of coke, aright? It's those crates there that just came in on the pick-up!"

"_The women, Giotti!_"

"That's not my bag, man. That's sick, like a dog. I'm no animal, I swear. The Russians, they're the one's that are into that mess. I just do drugs and gambling, I swear it."

"_Where do I find them?_"

"I, I don't know. They're usually at the easternmost shipyard, that's where their freight comes in. Beyond that I don't know!"

With that, Cranston let go of Giotti, dropping him out the window and onto the staircase. The lard-filled mobster hit the railing on his stomach and rolled over to hit the stairs until he finally rolled into place as the third man in the pile.


	4. Chapter 4

Cranston casually strolled out of the gate passed the still bewildered officer. It was almost noon, which put Cranston nearly late for his appointments that day. He turned to his right and walked a few paces down the sidewalk until Shrevy had caught up with him and slowed the taxi down to a gentle stop in front of Lamont. Cranston smiled and sat in the taxi. He reclined and closed his eyes, Shrevy knowing immediately where to go. _After you drop me off, Shrevy, make sure you go tell Commissioner Weston to investigate this warehouse. Be discreet._ Cranston thought. Shrevy nodded, being made somehow aware of his employers wishes.

The car ride was shorter than expected and still didn't give Lamont the time he needed to soothe away the headache. Even still, he closed his eyes and leaned back to think about his next move – the false darkness of closed eyes in the daytime barely providing the solace he required. The Russians were the ones that were in the sex crimes, or at least that's what Giotti said. Cranston began to wonder if he could trust Giotti at all. From one end, you have Giotti's benefit of having the Russians destroyed by whatever it was that Giotti thought attacked him – which opens up the rest of the city for Giotti's thugs to get involved in. Then again, maybe Giotti was telling the truth. Maybe the truth benefitted Giotti all around: He thought he wouldn't be tossed out of a window and his pesky turf war problem could be solved by a third party who worked, seemingly, for free.

The taxi slowed to a stop on the east end of Central Park, Shrevy giving a nod to Lamont in the rear-view mirror. "Thanks Shrevy." Lamont said, the callousness of _The Shadow_'s voice fading into the air. Lamont had barely closed the taxi door when Shrevy began to drive off. Lamont Cranston smiled and situated his black felt fedora on top of his head and began a casual stroll towards the big fair in the middle of the park. All sorts of fun and games had been set up for kids, and Cranston even managed to get two Ferris Wheels set up. It was a big 'community organizing' event that Cranston had sponsored. The profits were to go to helping rebuild the broken areas of the community and to fund the ever growing human trafficking fight that Cranston seemed to be such a crucial part of. As always, Lamont was expected to give some sort of speech. He even volunteered to answer questions for the press.

Lamont approached the side gate by the stage, hordes of camera men with their bulky cameras and excruciatingly bright flash bulbs already crowded up front for a good shot. Lamont opened the creaky gate and cringed as though he were trying to sneak in. The throngs of reports were immediately driven upon him in waves, camera's flashing, questions shouting, pencils scribbling. Cranston worked his way through the over-zealous media agents and up onto the stage where a local quartet were singing. Lamont smiled gingerly and shook their hands as they stepped to the back of the stage to give him room. By this time crowds began build behind the press. Lamont smiled and scanned the crowd for a moment, waiting to see if there were others still coming. His eyes fell first on Clyde Burke, the nearest and loudest reporter in the gaggle, but then, mixed in somewhere near the back of the crowd, his eyes fell on a delicious blonde figure: Miss Margo Lane. There she stood, the one who had been so cold to him at the party last night, standing in the midst of the crowds, eyes not even center but rather chasing something off to the side, cigarette burning in her fingers. She was beautiful!

A giant camera flash, probably belonging to Clyde Burke, quickly pulled Lamont out of the place in his mind where he didn't have a headache. He always had that headache. Quickly flinching and rubbing his eyes, Lamont laughed and tried to be a good sport. With a smile he walked up to the microphone and tapped on it to gain the murmuring crowd's attention. "Ladies and gentlemen," He said with a rich smile to compliment his pocket book, "Thank you for taking time to join me here. I know you're all anxious to get back to the games and rides so I'll be brief. Over the last four months we have all become increasingly aware of a tragedy that strikes our community. It destroys our homes, our families, and threatens our way of living. It's a crime wave that has gangs and thugs breaking in our homes, making us pay extra money to protect us from those protecting us, and recently, in its most evil incarnation, stealing and selling children on the black market as slaves to anyone who will pay right price. This is an evil that I have begun to devote myself to fighting in all of my capacity, with all of my money, influence, and scrap of power that resides in my being. It is an evil that I will not tolerate in my home, my neighborhood, or my family. I have opened the floor to the press for questions."

"Mr. Cranston!" The shouts were hurled up towards the stage. Cranston singled out the most familiar individual.

"Mr. Cranston, Clyde Burke from the Times. You've spent hundreds of thousands of dollars over the past few months and still the police have no leads. The gangs are bearing down stronger than ever, and as far as we know the people behind the trafficking are still at large. Are you beginning to grow weary of this endless chase?"

"Clyde," Lamont began, "The chase isn't endless. Instead of growing weary of this fight, I will grow increasingly more resolute with each day. I am not tired, and will never be such. I will end this."

"Mr. Cranston," shouted another reporter, "How much money are you willing to devote to this, and how will this affect your social calendar the rest of the year?"

"Well I am planned currently to give as much money as it will take until this is no longer an issue. As far as my social calendar, who knows? I'll try to keep the fun events up so we can all keep a good spirit about things!"

"Where is the lovely Mrs. Cranston!?" Shouted another.

Lamont laughed playfully, "Unfortunately, she only exists in my dreams. Thank you all, now get back to the fair!" Cranston walked off the stage to some second hand comments by the singers who gleefully dove back into their routine. With some effort and after some time he managed to placate the reporters enough to send them on their way. Off to his left, yes, she was still there. Lamont walked casually over to a large tree that was hiding Margo Lane in its shadow. "Miss Lane." He said, removing his fedora and bowing slightly.

"Yes?" She sighed. A smirk managed to make its way to the surface of her lips, but she quickly hid it behind her cigarette.

"Did you… Enjoy the speech?" Lamont questioned, searching for words.

"Ha. Just how egotistical are you?"

"Enough to ask a stupid question like that. Can I start over?"

"It's the only hope you have."

Lamont smiled, "I was wondering if I could personally cook for you tonight?"

"Oh? And what makes you so bold now?"

"It's just… I saw you from the stage, and I realized you're some kind of woman."

"Oh but last night after the party you had no time to talk to me before you rushed off."

"I had an appointment, but I've just cleared my schedule for tonight – if you're interested, that is."

Margo turned her back as if in thought. "Buy me a dress." She said sternly.

"What?"

"Buy me a dress. It isn't like you'll miss the money."

"Will you come over for dinner?"

"Certainly, if you buy the dress."

"See you tonight."

* * *

The doorbell rang just as Lamont was fixing his bow-tie on his tuxedo. With a smile he strolled downstairs and opened the large front door. There stood Margo Lane, the picture of beauty, her thick blonde hair complimenting perfectly her deep blue eyes. The light from the moon reflected off of the sparkling black dress Lamont had bought for her. Her bright red lips taunted him along with her perfect figure as she batted an eye at him teasingly, "Are you going to let me in?"

"Oh yes, please!" Lamont said, stepping aside. Margo walked in with a sophisticated sort of arrogance, as though she owned the place. Margo's heals clacked on the marble floors as her eyes judged the decorating as if to say, 'oh I wouldn't have put that there.'

"Nice place you have here, is dinner ready yet?" She asked, inviting herself into the kitchen.

"Oh yes, come right this way, I'll show you to the dining room." Lamont said. Margo smiled and handed her coat to the nearest passing butler. It would be a moment later that they were sitting across from each other at a small dining table. Various servants began to bring in the food starting with appetizers and moving upwards.

"And you cooked all of this yourself?" Margo asked, a disbelieving smile crossing her lips.

"Well, I mean… I had some help."

"Just what exactly did you cook?"

"I was mostly a supervisor, technically. But I am responsible for the recipes."

"You made them?"

"My cooks came up with some ideas, but I picked them out."

"Oh I see." She teased. They continued to laugh at this that, Margo picking on Lamont every chance she got. During their conversation, the doorbell rang. Lamont took a moment to look up but quickly returned his attention to Margo was now prattling on about some shopping in Manhattan she had wanted to do or something like that.

One of Lamont's butlers had the misfortune of answering the door. He opened it up to find a man in khaki pants and a green jacket with a black ski mask staring him down. "Can… Can I help you?" He managed to spit out. The man, without words raised a handgun and pulled the trigger, sending the butler to the floor. Lamont turned quickly to look in the direction of the door, not seeing anything due to the wall.

"What was that?" Margo said pensively.

"Come here." Lamont commanded.

"What?"

"Get under the table!" He whispered harshly. Margo quickly dove under the table, nervous over the gunshot she had heard, and upset that her new dress might get ruined. Lamont slowly stood up and walked to the end of the dining hall. Five or six more men charged in the house and spread out, shooting whatever staff they could find. Several of them charged into the kitchen and emptied several rounds into the kitchen staff and then made their way to the dining hall, finding Lamont standing with his hands up. "Gentlemen," He began, "Lets be reasonable about this. Surely we can come to an agreement."

One of the men motioned to search the room, and the other two quickly went about checking the corners but very soon found themselves flipping over the dining table. Margo began screaming almost instantly, the men grabbing her by the wrists to yank her out from her safe little spot on the floor. "Get your hands off of me!" She shouted, twisting and writhing in their grip. The men dragged her over and stood her up next to Cranston, restraining her from flailing her arms or attempting to run.

"Are you Lamont Cranston?" One of the men said with a gruff Russian accent.

"I am." Cranston said calmly, his hands still in the air.

"Good," The man responded, "Take them both."

"Gentlemen, plea-" Cranston started to say, a sharp sting landing on the back of his head sending him in an unconscious heap to the floor. Margo would follow shortly after.


	5. Chapter 5

Lamont shook his head, the pounding headache consuming his every thought. With a groan he looked up, everything around him blurry, where was he? His wrists hurt, rope cutting into them. Things began to clear up. Lamont was very firmly tied down to a chair in a large factory-like room. Margo slightly bruised and unconscious, was tied to the chair next to him. "Margo," He whispered, "Margo, wake up!" She shook her head and let out a little whimper but kept her head down and herself asleep. Lamont took a moment to pull at the ropes, but they wouldn't budge. There was a large shaft of light that shone through a roof panel directly overhead. The light that poured into the God-forsaken room illuminated all of the dust that swam wildly through the air – it was about the only thing in the building that seemed to have any life in it.

Lamont tried to memorize what of his surrounding he could, his headache surged through his brain. Cranston closed his eyes and tried to think himself beyond his present circumstance, but yet found no respite from the hell-pain in his skull. _Shrevy…_ He thought out, _Moe Shrevnitz…_Cranston began mouthing the name silently, attempting to reach out to Shrevy with any thought he could. Just as his lips formed the last few letters, a bone shaking _clack _rang out loud, a piercing shrill squeal filled Cranston's ears, and a searing pain flooded his head.

"Only speak when spoken to." A gruff Russian voice said sternly.

Cranston, with visible annoyance, turned his head back to face the voice and opened his eyes. The Russian was staring right at him, locking eyes intently. "You would be best not to do that again," Cranston said, "Just put the club down." The Russian nodded some sort of compliance and began to place the club on the floor. Before it could reach the ground, another man snatched it from him and quickly struck Lamont again.

"You speak out of turn again," The other one said, "And we'll hit the girl."

Lamont smiled and looked at the other man and nodded his agreement. The man sort of grunted his approval before kicking Margo's chair to wake her up. Margo moaned and shook her head. She opened her mouth, starting to speak, but shut up when she opened her eyes and saw the two men in front of her and Lamont. With fear in her eyes Margo looked to Lamont. Cranston smiled a compassionate smile at her, looking her in the eyes and thinking about how everything would be alright. Margo, for some reason unknown, envisioned being out of that place – lost in a delightful dream of a picnic away from the horrors of the present. A complacent smile fell over her beautiful face, Cranston taking solace in her comfort.

"Mr. Cranston," One of the Russian abductors began, "You will tell us everything you know about the investigation that the police have begun and everything your research has uncovered. If you don't, we'll kill you."

Cranston chuckled a little bit and spoke up, "It's funny, because I have a lot of the same questions for you guys!"

"No jokes!" The Russian yelled, fierce with anger as he sent his strong hand across Margo's face. "We'll kill the girl, then, since you don't have regard for you own life!"

Margo whelped at the blow and looked over at Lamont, sorrow and pleading filling her eyes. "Ok," Cranston said, "I'll tell you whatever you want, just don't hurt her. Please."

"Good, nice to see you've come around," The man began, "Now tell me, who is it that keeps killing my clients and leading the police closer to me?"

Lamont closed his eyes. He couldn't not answer the question, but he couldn't give the real answer. His silence lasted a bit too long for the Russian's taste, and the gruff man struck Margo with the black Billy club. Her scream pulled Lamont from his silence. "They say it's a detective called The Shadow." Lamont said firmly.

"Who is he? Who does he work for?" The Russian questioned loudly, striking Margo again.

Lamont hesitated a moment, "I don't know. The police hate him."

"You stalled!" The Russian screamed as he struck Margo again. The man then struck Lamont.

"It's the truth," Lamont started, the club flying across his face again, "I swear! Stop hitting me!"

The Russian raised the club to strike Lamont and Margo again but was stopped when one of the factory doors was flung open. "Sir," the intrusive newcomer shouted, "Some of Giotti's men are here to see you!"

"Alright, tell them I'm coming." The gruff Russian said and then turned to Lamont, "I'll be back to finish this." On his way out he beat the Billy club into the quieter Russian's chest. "Keep an eye on them." He said sternly. The man nodded.

* * *

Several police cars sat in the drive of Lamont Cranston's house, and several officers wandered aimlessly throughout the house, documenting this and that. It had been a few hours since the massacre and kidnapping, but only a few minutes since Moe Shrevnitz had come home and stumbled on the scene. He had immediately called the police who were there in a jiffy. Commissioner Weston had gotten the call from one of the rookies and left his desk in a flash and was just arrive on the scene. "What have we got?" He said out loud to any officer that could hear him.

"Thirteen bodies, signs of a struggle." Some young kid answered up.

"Cranston's body?" Weston questioned.

"Not that we can tell, sir. He was at dinner with one Margo Lane; neither of them here on campus that we can tell."

"Of course…" Weston said with a sigh, lighting up a cigarette in an attempt to escape the stress of his work. The Commissioner took a long drag off of the cigarette and held the smoke tightly in his lungs as he entered the house. The white fumes escaped his lips lazily as he sighed and looked upon the scene of the dead staff. "Where do we think it happened?" He questioned, drawing off his cigarette again.

"In here." The rookie responded, pointing towards the dining room.

Muttering an expletive or eight, Weston turned his sights towards the dining room. He approached through the kitchen, drawing off of his cigarette again to ensure his lungs didn't have a chance to get any fresh air as he saw all of the murdered staff. "Can't we clean up some of this?" He said under his breath. A moment later he arrived in the dining room to see the over-turned table. "This is bad," He said, pulling more smoke out of the cigarette, "This is really bad."

Meanwhile, back at the factory, the scary Russian guard stood stoic and solid, staring at Cranston: His unmoving, statuesque manner slightly frightening. "Hey buddy," Cranston said, looking into the man's eyes, "Why don't you untie me." The large man just stood and stared at Cranston, unmoving at Lamont's power of suggestion. Lamont shot a glance over at Margo, who was crying with her head down. Lamont started to feel something welling up within him. Anger, vindication, no something else: Rage. He looked up at the guard and began to laugh. "Fools," He said, "You're all fools." The guard raised the club to hit Lamont but was cut off by more talk: "Go ahead, hit me. Keep hitting me. I'll make sure to remember your face when I come back to drag you to hell."

The guard swung hard and hit Lamont across the jaw. Cranston laughed, "Yes, keep going! Keep hitting me!" He shouted. The guard obliged and hit Cranston again. Margo drove herself further into tears, letting her sobbing consume her. Cranston just consumed the pain, he assumed it as his identity, and let it engulf him. All of the pain, all of the anger, all of the hate – he let it in. The more the man hit him, the more Cranston laughed, the more the guard hit him. It was a cycle, vicious and unending. After just a few moments of the beating and Cranston was bleeding.

The guard started to pull back for his next round of blows, but halted when Lamont seemed to flicker. It was as if, for just a moment, the captive Mr. Cranston wasn't even real. The guard hit Lamont with force and pulled back to swing again. Then it happened again, only this time on the return swing. Cranston seemed to disappear for just a moment, the club passing through the air where he was sitting just a moment prior. The guard stepped back for a moment, shocked. Lamont smiled and eerie and evil smile, looking up at the Russian through the top of his eyes. Cranston, with a big inhale to puff out his chest against the ropes, suddenly and mysteriously vanished from sight. Only a shadow of him remained in the chair, and that shadow suddenly pushed its way through the ropes that had previously bound it. The thick rope went slack and fell to the seat of the chair as the shadow seemed to stand on it's own in the air. Lamont Cranston pulled himself out of the shadow and stood facing the guard. He just smirked and then vanished again. Almost a moment later, Margo's ropes were loosened and fell off of her. The guard, scared out of his mind, turned and ran out of the building. Lamont appeared in front of the crying Margo and picked her up out of the chair. She hadn't seen a thing and was too scared to take her face out of her hands. "Come on, Margo. We're getting out of here. Shrevy will find us."

Lamont began running for the door, Margo in his arms. He slowed as he approached the door and pulled himself and Margo into the shadow next to it. Slowly he opened it and peered out cautiously, not wanting to be seen. After a moment of determining that no one was immediately around, Lamont opened the door and spied a shadow on the other side of the vacant gravel drive that stood now between them and safety. The shadow was being cast off of a large warehouse-like building, and covered a decent amount of ground. With as much boldness as could be mustered, Lamont took off running, Margo in his arms.

His feet crunched across the gravel and dirt, dust lifting into the air behind him. Half-way there now, and sweat was breaking out on Cranston's face. The ever-present headache had subsided for just a moment, being replaced with a sort of fear: A hesitation at the thought of being seen. Almost there, just a few feet away and suddenly there was a shout. It was something in Russian that Lamont didn't understand, but it wouldn't take a genius to figure out what it probably meant. Out of the sky, or maybe the top of a building near-by, gunshots sang out loudly. Bullets ricocheted off of the dirt and rock around Cranston's feet, causing him to run just that much faster. There was now more shouting and even more men firing guns. Lamont dove boldly into the shadow, turning his body over and curling himself around Margo so that he would take the impact and leave her unharmed.

The bullets followed them forcefully into the shadow and threatened their lives more with every passing second. Lamont shook the crying Margo. "Margo," he said, "I want you to think about this shadow. I want you to think about darkness, about hiding from the light. Think as hard as you can! Margo, do you understand?" Margo shook her head and tried to calm her sobbing for a moment. The headache returned and pounded violently around Lamont's head. He closed his eyes and focused hard on himself and on Margo, pressing his back to the warehouse wall. There was a moment where they seemed, just for a second, to be melting into the darkness. Margo opened her tightly shut eyes and saw the world around her fading to black and white, and then suddenly, to darkness. It was as though her whole world had been eclipsed in a giant shadow – everything enveloped in darkness.

Then, against Lamont's will, the two were torn out of the shadow and back into reality, bullets clashing with the brick warehouse side around them. "Think harder, Margo," he shouted – though mostly to himself, "Concentrate!" She closed her eyes and Lamont knelt down, holding her close in his arms. Slowly they began to fade into the dark, bullets that would have otherwise been fatal were found missing their mark as they simply passed through the translucent couple. Margo ignored the feeling of darkness and empty nothing, while Lamont focused harder with each passing second. Finally the two faded off into the shadows, to the point where they themselves became as the shadows.

Lamont smiled and laughed, not believing he had actually done what he just did. For the first time Cranston had used his abilities to pull two people into the darkness. Not letting himself be distracted, however, Lamont turned and ran towards the gate. _Shrevy_, he thought out, _Shrevy tell me you're here_. There was this moment, though silent, that was full of words. It was full of feeling. Lamont suddenly saw images in his mind of the warehouse, dock, and factory, as seen from outside the gate. He knew it was Shrevy responding to the mental voice of Lamont Cranston. Lamont turned, Margo still in his arms, towards the gate on his right, on the other side of the warehouse. Dust rose into the air as a shadow cast by nothing moved swiftly and silently across the ground. Bullets ricocheted off of the dirt and rocks around and on the shadow, yet they hit nothing.

There, straight ahead, Lamont saw a trick of light. He understood it to be yellow, and a reflection. It was Shrevy! The shadow ran towards the taxi cab, still chased by bullets, and a moment later it pushed itself through the fence, as only a shadow can do. Lamont appeared again in the flesh, holding the now slightly calmer Margo in his arms. Without having to say or think a word, the door to the cab opened and Lamont carelessly tossed Margo inside and dove in after her. "Drive!" He shouted. Shrevy immediately took off among a barrage of bullets and gunfire without waiting even for the door to be closed.

There was silence in the cab as Shrevy drove speeding down the road. Lamont rested back against the seat and closed his eyes, exhausted from the day's events. Margo sat in silence, in shock over what had happened. The peace was only to last a moment, however. "Who are you?" Margo said, her voice shaking and her eyes set straight ahead.


End file.
